


Better Together (else there's not a lot to read)

by Otaku6337



Series: Ota's One-Shot Wonders [10]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Stiles Stilinski, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, BAMF Stiles, Dark Stiles Stilinski, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Good Peter, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Magical Stiles Stilinski, One Shot Collection, Peter Needs a Hug, Protective Peter Hale, Protective Stiles Stilinski, Sane Peter Hale, Scott McCall (Teen Wolf) Bashing, Scott is a Good Friend, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Steter - Freeform, Stiles Stilinski Needs a Hug, Stiles Stilinski Runs Away, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski, all kinds of things i guess, in some
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2020-10-28 04:36:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 12,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20772647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otaku6337/pseuds/Otaku6337
Summary: A series of Stiles/Peter drabbles, one-shots, whatever you want to call them. Includes, but very much not limited to: Alpha werewolf Stiles; bad pack; cute courting stuff; Stiles and Peter leaving; mates! Steter. Largely fluff and comfort with some blood thrown in! Oh, and there's some tears and fears too.





	1. Quiet And Ignored

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pack doesn't truly approve of Stiles and Peter's growing relationship. They don't care.

It was weird how well Stiles got on with Peter. And vice versa. You know, once the whole 'I'll kill/turn/burn/hurt you and yours' things were over. They were both past those now. Well, not to the point that they weren't used as teasing ammo, but whatever. Past those now.  
In fact, they could probably be considered friends.

They frequented a quiet diner on the outskirts of town, just for coffee and a chat; sometimes for a meal and a serious conversation or research session (the latter mainly when they couldn't use either of their own houses - neither the Sheriff nor the other betas were wanted, needed or conducive for those).  
They were normally found together outside school hours. And quite often during as well. After all, between Peter and the Sheriff, they had managed to get Stiles a pass to attend college and university lectures that could further his knowledge in certain areas that he was interested in, that he was looking to pursue (criminology, psychology, mythology etc.). Which meant he attended his actual school pretty irregularly. He was clever enough to skip BHHS altogether, but the school wanted the reputation of having had him as a student, of having taught him, so they kept their metaphorical claws dug in him as tightly as possible for as long as possible. And Peter attended these lectures with him. He was his 'chaperone' - the high school had demanded he have one. And its not like his dad could come.

So, between that, and the fact that they were rarely not at one or the other's house, they could definitely be considered friends. Maybe something more. After all, they fairly lived in each other's pockets, and had developed to be pretty co-dependent. Okay, okay, very co-dependent. Something most of the pack quietly disapproved of. But nobody had the guts or heart to approach them about it directly - that would be a catastrophe in the making and would doubtless split the pack three ways. With Stiles and Peter alone against the neutral and opposing pack members. And nobody wanted that. So the co-dependency was left alone.

Even when only Peter could talk him out of a panic attack. Or take a razor out of his hand before it drew any blood. Or prevent the nightmares from even arriving in the first place.

  
Even when only Stiles could block Peter's nightmares in return. Or could convince him to stay in Beacon Hills, not run until he could no more. Or not be hurt, to actually be able to stop it when the wolf flipped out, lashed out.

  
The two needed each other on a level nobody else in the pack could understand. And for now, they had all given up trying. At least for now.


	2. Alpha (pt.1)

"Yes." It takes of course. They both knew it would.

Mere hours later, Stiles the werewolf throws a molotov cocktail at his alpha. He collapses, writhing, to the ground, feeling every lick of flame as alpha power courses through his veins. Peter's alpha powers. Peter's pain. And he howls. Howls low and loud and long with remorse and agony and strength and wishes for things to have been different. With that, he sees only darkness.

He cries out in his sleep. For his mom. For Peter. For control of his wolf. There are tears.

He wakes up in his own bed. Above him, his father. He pushes away the feral wolf in his head. Tells it to draw his blood from the inside. He'll heal, right?  
Then he pushes away the resultant agony in time to realise his dad's saying something.

"Huh?"

His dad rolls his eyes fondly before growing serious once more.

"You're a werewolf now?"

"I- You-" he stops, sighs. Gathers himself,

"Yes. The alpha."

His father's eyes close for a long second, likely in resignation.

"But you're in control, aren't you?" The desperate, needy edge to the words gives Stiles the fortitude he needs to lie.

"Yes. Not perfectly, but enough. Now, what're we eating?" Because that makes it believable. And he has to fool his dad. If only to protect the man.

When his dad goes downstairs to start on dinner, Stiles rockets out of bed into his bathroom. Crouching over the toilet bowl, he vomits blood. Too much blood. But his wolf is calmed, however temporarily. Its own blood has sated it. And if that's what it takes to not go feral, then Stiles will pay any such price.

For the memory of Peter, if nothing else.


	3. The Names

It was bound to happen eventually. In a pack of supernatural creatures and Lydia it was impossible to keep a secret for any extended period of time. They thought they'd at least have a month though.

But no. Fate, destiny- whatever, the world had other ideas apparently.

"Get away from Stiles!"

"Oh my God, already?" Stiles and Peter stopped kissing, but their eyes remained closed, foreheads pressed together, breathing from the same inch of air.

"Stiles move, now! Peter, get out!" Neither of them moved. Stiles could practically see the amused, if somewhat frustrated, smirk on his boyfriend's lips. The teen couldn't even bring himself to find the humour in the situation.

"Scott, I love you bro, but this is Peter's home and he hasn't forced me to make out with him or anything. Its all consensual."

"I- You- What?"

"What Mieczyslaw means is-"

"Peter Derek Jacob Hale, shut up now! We do not bring the names into things!"

Both of them now had their eyes open, glaring lightly at each other. Though the wolf's hands never left his young mate's hips and his hands never left the older man's neck. The betas in the doorway were already forgotten.

"But you just did."

"Only after you did!"

"Fine. You win, this time."

"Hmph. Every time." Peter only hummed thoughtfully before licking a long stripe up Stiles' cheek and chin.

"Eww!" But the teen was giggling happily, rubbing the spit off on his boyfriend's shoulder.

"Not in front of the others."

"But they know now love."

"Oh, yeah, but still-"

"What the hell is happening?!" Scott burst out, interrupting his best-friend. Peter's eyes flashed.

"Look, Scott, me and Peter and together, okay?"

"No, not okay! When did this happen? Why?"

"Why?" Peter growled, teeth elongating, anger emanating. But Stiles cut him off before he could say another word.

"Because we love each other. Accept it or go away. Oh, and we got together a few weeks ago. Which really, isn't that long, we wanted to be settled... within ourselves before telling the pack."

"Oh... um... okay?"

"Yes, Scott, okay. Now why are you all here?"

"That's not important," Lydia jumped in, she had a satisfied, although still-curious gleam in her eyes,  
"Since when was Derek named after Peter?"


	4. Who Said Being Evil Meant Lacking Love?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A peculiar little triad based off of a prompt from Bites - thanks as always love, although I'm fairly sure my brain took your idea and ran completely parallel to it, or maybe even in the opposite direction - sorry! Hope you still enjoy it. Hugs to all, and cookies too, Ota. Xxx

It's Peter who knocks on Stiles' bedroom window. 

He'd gotten home after Gerard, after the Kanima/Jackson shebang, after losing and losing and losing, even as the pack won. Stiles lost and hurt and was left all alone, ignored amongst his pack, so he went home. He dealt with his Dad, brushed off every bit of distant concern he could, and then headed up into his room, ready to sleep for a week. Then there was a knock on his window.

"S'unlocked," came his muffled groan. He definitely couldn't be bothered to lift even a finger from his matress. So when two pairs of feet thudded softly onto his carpet, one after the other, he barely even registered the sound, let alone what the double thudding might mean. There's some muted shuffling, some rustling of cloth, the soft murmur of two voices, deep and rumbling, reassuring yet not aimed at him, and Stiles sinks into the noises the same way he sank into his bed. It's a blanket of warmth and safety and, in this case, not-quite-familiarity. Like a half-forgotten memory yet to be made. It's a good memory, he decides vaguely. Stiles is distantly aware that he should be concerned: with his injuries, yet untreated; with the pack, together yet so far apart; with the dual voices, unfamiliar yet somehow the most comforting thing he's heard since- Well, probably since months before his Mom died. Yeh, that's it. It reminds him of how she used to tell him fairy tales in hushed tones, or how she would sing lullabies in the softest voice, like fresh cookies and fluffy blankets and the fur-covered heartbeat of a bunny rabbit.

These two voices are safe. He knows it in his marrow and blood and heart.

So no, he doesn't move a muscle when his bed sinks, the mattress dipping on either side of him, two bodies radiating heat settling there. One large hand, callouses shallow but there, settles carefully against the side of his neck. When his pain begins to fade, Stiles can't help but let out a long, --- sigh into his pillow. Muscles and tendons and bones that he hadn't even realised were tense relaxed and he melted, both under the touch and into the beginnings of sleep.

"Stay?" he requests, the single word drowned in his pillow, already weak and quiet to begin with. When the voices drifting above him take on affirmative notes, he allows himself to fade into comfortable darkness, trusting them with everything. If they sound like this, feel like this, they are people he _can_ trust with everything. And so he did.

It was the next morning, judging by the sunlight streaming in between the gap in his curtains, when Stiles graduated back into awareness. His agony and aches were gone. He could still feel the tightness in his limbs that indicated there were injuries - dried blood and cuts and contusions and bruises that blossomed like flowers on his skin. But he was warm and pain-free and safe. Forcing his eyes to focus, his senses to expand beyond his body, Stiles began to register the two bodies - people - either side of him. Judging by the heat that they radiated alone, and of course the two hands grazing his shoulder and his hip respectively that were laced with tell-tale black veins, they were werewolves. And, after only a moment or two of looking at the 'wolf to his right, his sleep-blurred mind began to process that Peter was lying beside him, leaving as much room as possible between them. Despite that, the way that the man curled slightly where he lay, inclining every limb towards the teenager, it was obvious that he was fighting an urge to lay closer. Somehow, that fact didn't completely horrify or shock Stiles. Instead, a little flare of warmth glowed in his chest. Not wanting to think about all that now, his head was too muddled, Stiles turned his attention to the werewolf on the opposite side of his bed. And... he didn't recognise him? The man was stunning, no doubt, although there was some kind of scarring around his eyes. And Stiles should definitely, definitely, be more concerned that a werewolf that he doesn't know was lying in his bed, a large hand rested on Stiles' shoulder. But the back of his mind was whispering at him, reminding him of how the two had made him feel so safe and looked after last night, they still were now, even when they were barely doing anything...

With a smile, Stiles slipped back into sleep. 

"I don't want to wake him Deuc, but it still smells like fresh blood." The hushed voice was what woke Stiles the second time. As he stirred, the voice stopped talking, a soft kind of silence falling over the room.

"Hello, darling boy," the werewolf purred the words, fingers tracing little patterns against the human's side. Resisting the urge to purr himself, Stiles shifted a little closer to the delightful touch.

"Mornin' you two," he offered in return.

"Hello Stiles. It's lovely to finally meet you properly," the mystery man spoke up,  
"I'm Deucalion." His British accent was accentuated by the gentle tone, his voice just as warm as his touch,  
"I hope my presence didn't disturb you at all last night."

"No," Stiles replied through a yawn, keeping his head fairly buried in his pillow,  
"You sounded safe. Felt safe. You both did. 's nice." Twin rumbles emanated from the bodies either side of him. After a good minute of the comforting noise, Peter spoke up again,

"Would you allow me to treat your wounds Stiles? Deuc can cook us some breakfast in the meanwhile." 

"Mm, yes please." And so that was what they did.

Coming downstairs half an hour later, a hot hand branding itself where it steadied him on his hip, Stiles was feeling far more relaxed than he probably should have, Peter had treated his wounds, his large hands heart-wrenchingly careful with Stiles, not coddling but definitely cradling, touching him like he was something precious, something to be cherished. Black veins and crisp white dressings evidenced his care. And now he was guiding Stiles into a chair at his own kitchen table, going to join Deucalion at the counter to grab various bits of crockery and cutlery. Within a minute or two, the three were sat together, their socked feet all tangling atop the tiles, contentedly eating their bacon and pancakes, the two werewolves' plates piled particularly high. Once they were all at least half eaten, Stiles gathered the courage to speak up, to ask the question bothering him most:

"Why are you both here?" The older men exchanged loaded glances but replied almost immediately,

"You are like us, Stiles. You are not evil, not necessarily, but there is a darkness that blooms in your gut and heart and mind that allows you to do evil things for those you love. I can do evil things; Peter can do evil things. We are kin, of a sort, and we protect our own. Not to mention," and now Deucalion is leering, sneering, peering at Stiles with eyes brighter red than blood, even through the milkiness and surrounding scarring,  
"Gerard took from you. He took from us too. We will kill him. We would like to give you the opportunity to help."

It was only five nights later that three shadows slunk back to the Stilinski home. Their clothes were spotless, although their shoes did hold traces of mud. Their hands were clean to the eye, and their consciences were clear. After all, taking out a monster didn't tend to make one guilty. Not people like them anyway. They had darkness within them, and it was that darkness that bound them together, even closer than mates. They could understand each other after all.

(It is only a month later that they first visit the Nemeton together. It is dark but not stormy, the skies clear and here, deep in the Preserve, they can see the stars twinkling above the canopy. It is beautiful, but not as stunning as the sight of each other bathed in crystal moonlight. And then, not stunning nor beautfiul, but with an ethereal sense of _other_ all the same, there is the Nemeton. Its stump is wide and cracked and holds both darkness and lightness within it, that much is obvious to even Stiles' fledgling Spark senses. But then that darkness separates, divides, and a good chunk of it manifests between the roots, gravitating towards Stiles. A vulpine body forms of the blob, a fox creating itself in front of them. Feeling a tug in his chest, Stiles steps forwards. One step, two steps, three- Two hands shoot out to grip him, one around his chest, the other around his waist, and two matching growls rumble out into the otherwise silent clearing. '**_Fear not,'_** comes the voice, thin as the wind yet ancient and powerful as the earth itself '_I_**_ am not here to harm but to offer a deal. In return for a little darkness, a little more shadow in your soul, I can give you power, little Spark.'_**Stiles is unwavering, a frown twisting his features prettily; the fox grins and continues on, '**_Power enough to protect your wolves, be it from others or themselves.'_** And that clinches it. Stiles nods, body relaxing, and offers a speckled hand to the spirit. When its shadow-fur-void touches his fingertips, there is a vacuum, a rush of wind and prevalence of nothing, before everything readjusts itself and is normal once more. Well, not quite normal. There is a weight in his chest, settling below his heart. Almost like an anchor, but it doesn't drag him down, oh no, instead it keeps him in place, grounds him, connects him to his powers and the ground and the air and the magic of everything. He can feel the sparks of his wolves, crowding him from either side, and he realises that he should probably open his eyes and reply to them. So he does, and they smile and growl and flash their eyes, but all of it is familiar and close and what he needs, always. They are what he needs, always. But they are together and he can protect them and they he, so they are fine and all is well. Who said that being evil meant you couldn't find love?)


	5. Blood Brings Bonds

Scott was beyond being a jerk now. Stiles had been forced to k- to kill Donovan. To protect himself, his dad, his pack - and Scott had the nerve, the assholery to criticise him for it. When Stiles was a second from the worst panic attack ever, was already hating himself, mere minutes from something dangerously drastic, Scott could only preach his self-righteous anger and disappointment. And now he was shouting it. In his face. And Stiles had had enough!

"SHUT UP!" he roared, the wolf-like ferocity in his voice betrayed by its cracking. Then he walked away. Limbs trembling from sheer emotion and exhaustion; hands stained in blood that neither rain nor tears were washing off, he walked away. Scott let him.

Once he was out of sight of the 'True Alpha' - what a joke - another wolf approached the human. Gently he tugged on the shaking hands -_ "No Peter, no. You'll be covered in blood too." "Hush dear boy, I already am."_ \- and led Stiles to his own inconspicuous hybrid car. The teen couldn't even think where he had left the Jeep.  
For some reason that was what finally triggered his panic attack.

It had been building. A pressure behind his eyes, at the base of his spine, crushing his heart and lungs but now it squeezed. With the strength of a dozen alpha packs. Every muscle in his body spasmed - not too badly but enough to see him locked in place, no control, collapsing onto the drenched pavement. His vision drowned in intermittent black, white, red. All death and darkness and blood and bones. His breath was seized by some phantom force. Screams and pleas echoed. Stiles was nothing, nothing, just a drop in the ocean, just a mote of dust, just a single atom, nothing, yet he was the cause of everything and that thought sent him spiralling head-over-heels into disturbed darkness.

A time later, he woke up. On a leather sofa. In what seemed to be... Peter's apartment. There was a blissful minute of ignorance, albeit with a insistent little voice in the back of his voice that whispered of something. Something bad. Something damning. Something terrifying. Something that Stiles had done.  
And Stiles forced it away. Refused to listen to its bitter poison. Instead, he moved to push back the soft woollen blanket that was covering his legs and torso. But his hands were red with still warm, still dripping, blood. He let out a choked, whimpering facsimile of a scream. As hushed footsteps came hurrying down what sounded to be metal stairs, he gladly passed out once more.

"Stiles?"  
Something was being called. A word. What an odd word.

"Stiles!"  
Seriously, what's a Stiles?

"Stiles, can you wake up for me?"  
Ohhh, it's a name. Whose?

"Dammit Stiles, I'll bite you! This isn't funny!"  
Whos- It's mine!

"Don't!" Stiles exclaimed. Well, tried to. It came out as more of an urgent grunt. Accompanied by a flinch of pain. Because, moving? Ow! A large, warm, rough hand settled lightly on his shoulder, another on his forehead. Almost immediately, the pain began to drain away. Stiles could picture black veins dancing up muscled, V-neck-clad arms. Unfortunately, it couldn't ease the tight stiffness in his muscles that came from adrenalin overloads and violent fit-like trembling.

"Well?" Slowly, Stiles allowed his eyes to open. The mid-morning light pierced, sending needles stabbing into his brain.

"Ma't'op." (Make it stop)

"Hmm?" came the vaguely amused reply as Peter slid his hand from the human's brow to just hovering over his eyes, allowing little light to filter through. Stiles groaned in thanks. And relief. Because God it still hurt.

"Your wolfy painkillers are past their expiry date," he mumbled. His eyelashes brushed against the man's palm as the elder chuckled - deep and quiet and somewhat desperate, somewhat relieved - with muted mirth. It was overshadowed by the blood - now dry and flaking but remaining all too present - still covering his hands. His arms. His face. His entire body. It itched. Irritated.

"You'll get covered in blood Peter."

"As I already said dear boy, it's too late for me. I've been covered in it for quite some time."

And, despite it all, Stiles actually smiled at that.


	6. Alpha (pt.2)

It had been several difficult months of establishing and looking after his pack. Of forcing his wolf under control. Feeding it his own flesh; allowing it to feast from the inside out. So every few days he was left, shaking, trembling, leant against his toilet, blood staining the bowl before he flushed it away, the loud gurgling of the plumbing only heightening his nausea.

His pack now consisted of 8 betas, including a banshee and a hunter. Plus the pack adjacent of Chris, the Sheriff and Melissa. They were a mish-mash of characters to say the least. But under Stiles, they were a cohesive, cool, collected unit. Beyond that in fact: a family.  
Three pack nights a week - two at the Stilinski household, one at Derek's loft. That meant pizza, movies, research, puppy piles, home-cooking, plans, gossip. Afternoons and evenings spent as a true family. One that bickered, comforted, teased. And, really? None of them could ask for more.  
They were happy with Stiles as their alpha.

The only problem was that he was all too good at lying. He kept his feral wolf at bay, strictly controlled it when he needed to shift. And kept it a secret from everyone that it was wild - even Lydia and his dad. But he was beginning to struggle. The insatiable need for blood, death, submission was more frequent every time. The best he could do was hunting deer in the Preserve to supplement his own innards.  
His was an alpha wolf. And that of course made the situation all the worse.

And then Lydia's troubles began.  
Geez, talk about stress.


	7. Alpha (pt.3)

Peter was _there_. Just stood there.

  
Stiles' wolf was rabid with anger and blood lust - _hurt pack hurt us hurt hurt hurt_ \- but at the same time it recognised the man as its once-alpha. The man that Stiles would have rather liked, if not for the whole creepy psychopathic elements. Which apparently were now gone.

Inside Stiles, his wolf scrabbled to be let out, howled and bit and clawed. He too howled at the agony inflicted, hunched over, blood already choking him as he vomited. Eyes flashed. Claws dug into their own flesh. His pack gathered around protectively, growling hopelessly. Reaching out, trying to help. He had to-

"Stay!" he ground out. As the protests began, he leapt clean over his pups' heads, desperation lending him strength. He was running as he landed, headed deep into the Preserve. He had to get away from his town, his pack. He couldn't hurt them. He couldn't. He'd rather die. He'd rather be killed by his own wolf. As he ran, he shifted, taking on a full wolf form. It was his first time and bones cracked, stretched, rebuilt themselves in foreign yet familiar shapes. Joints dislocated and muscles warped. The pain was excruciating.

Then he was a wolf.

Knowing he was leaving a bloody trail, but unable to act on the importance of it, Stiles ran. For hours; daylight to moonlight to sunlight once again. He ran. Adding to the sanguine destruction in his wake with various deer, rabbits, foxes, birds, badgers. They were a poor substitute for his wolf, but to him they were the largest prey he was willing to go after.

  
After all, he could hardly go after Peter, now could he?

  
He wasn't even sure if he wanted to anymore.


	8. Wonderful Dreams

It's a Thursday when Stiles collapses. He'd had roughly five hours fitful sleep across the last week, and had spent even less time with food in front of him. Peter had been lingering - in a surprisingly non-creepy creeper way - and had threatened to force feed him a few times, but it never quite amounted to that. Until now.  
Stiles was five minutes from home. Ten from school. Struggling to keep his eyes and focused, he hadn't even noticed the sleek, dark Jeep tailing him. Which, when he finally collapsed, face smooshing into the steering wheel, powder blue jeep careening into a tree, throwing him around like rag doll, trapped by the seatbelt, blood and metal everywhere, skidded to a halt. Various curses could be heard. Before his vehicle had even stopped the werewolf was out and running to the wreck.

"Stiles? Stiles!" Thank God! There was still a heartbeat!

  
As carefully as he could, Peter forced open the car door, ripped the seatbelt in half and pulled the teen out.  
Cautious not to jostle him too much, he carried the prone body back to his own car, lying him down gently across the backseat. As he began a cursory inspection for wounds, he rang up the police station.

"Hello, Beacon Hi-?"

" I need to speak to the Sheriff. Now."

"I'm sorry sir-"

"It's about Stiles. I need to talk to John. Tell him it's Peter."

"O-okay."

A pause. The werewolf could hear the woman -Tara - calling out. A muffled reply and the sound of hurried footsteps.

"Peter! Is Stiles alright? What happened?"

"I'm taking him to hospital. Nothing life-threatening from what I can tell. He finally collapsed whilst driving to school. Roscoe's a mess."

"Dammit! Okay, I'm on my way to the hospital now. How long?"

"Fifteen."

"Right. They'll be ready."

With that, Peter hung up, flung his phone onto the front passenger seat, ensured the teen was secure and began driving. Driving, not speeding. But it still only took nine minutes. Stiles' breathing and heartrate had become laboured and erratic. More blood was soaking into the seats than Peter cared to think about.

"Come on Stiles. Nearly there." He received a weak groan in reply - at least he was semi-conscious. Though with the pain that could be smelt, maybe that was a bad thing.

As they arrived at the hospital Peter scooped Stiles up, not allowing the doctors and their gurney to take him. A werewolf could move faster after all. Not that they knew that. As he jogged steadily part John, the older man murmured where to take his son. Internally, the 'wolf cursed as he carried on past, wishing he could move faster without fear of worsening the condition of his precious cargo or simply missing a sign leading him to his destination.

Soon - it felt like a dozen eternities - the man was storming into the emergency care unit and, somewhat reluctantly, handing Stiles over to the staff. He resisted the urge to growl as they began wheeling him away, hands all over him, checking his vitals, his wounds. Stiles was his, _his, **his**_ and how dare they- No. Stiles needed them right now.

  
So he controlled himself.

For over three hours he paced. Back and forth. Back and forth. Wall to seats. Return. Wall to seats. Return. Repetitively venting his frustration. He could hear his- Stiles' heartbeat, but it wasn't enough. He needed to see, touch, smell. He needed _Stiles_.  
John had tried to make him sit down. Calm down. But Peter and his wolf were having none of it. So they continued pacing. Until suddenly he stiffened, whirling to face the room Stiles was being treated in.

  
A moment later a doctor strode out, gaze dancing over a thick medical file. Stiles' file.

"Sheriff?"

"Here," John rose to his feet,

"What can you tell us? How is he?"

"Umm..." the woman glanced uncertainly towards Peter, who returned her stare with an impatient, intense glare of his own. The sheriff noticed.

"Peter's fine. A family friend."

"O-okay then. There was nothing too dangerous. There was some internal bleeding in the abdomen, and a broken rib came close to puncturing his right lung, but we prevented that via our surgeries. He also suffered multiple superficial lacerations, some of which will likely scar. Though he's already got quite the collection," she added pointedly.

Peter couldn't help the subvocal growl that ripped through him - his human shouldn't be scarred. Shouldn't have to be. And how dare she- A calloused hand was placed heavily on his shoulder.

"Thank you. Can we see him?"

"He's being moved to a private room as we speak, you can stay with him then. But no more than a person at a time. He needs to stay still and calm."  
Peter resisted the urge to snort at that. Stiles was never still. Nor calm. It wasn't in his nature. Apart from when he was sleeping, he barely even breathed then. But for nightmares anyway. Then he'd writhe and whimper and scream and twi- Not the time, nor the place.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, he trailed after the Sheriff, simultaneously trying to smell nothing at all - hospitals were the most sickening combination of medicine, illness and death - and pick out that gingery scent that was Stiles. To no avail. Everything else was just too overwhelming. It masked the delicate yet spicy smell that Peter so loved, that so reminded him of the person himself.

  
And then the two men were entering a room already perfumed with ginger and copper - Ah. Stiles and blood. They instantly rushed to the teen's bedside.

Around them, various machines beeped incessantly, obnoxiously, but neither of the concerned men were complaining. It was a constant reassurance of the life of their loved one. They would rather hear it every second of the day - Peter did when they were nearby, although that's not the point - than not hear it at all.  
With a deep, world-weary sigh, the werewolf sank into a chair next to the teen's bed. Silly, foolish boy of his. He wasn't very good at looking after himself, then had the nerve to complain when Peter tried to do it for him! Silly, foolish boy. With a matching sigh, John ran fingertips gently over his child's forehead before turning to the man,  
"I'm still on shift. Peter, can I leave him with you?"

"Of course. I'll ring if anything happens."

"Thank you."

And with that the Sheriff left, returning to his job. Realising the pack would probably be worrying by now - Stiles was missing first lesson already - Peter got out his phone. After texting the betas and Derek with a round-robin 'Stiles crashed Roscoe. He's alright, but in hospital. Stay in school.' he proceeded to ring up the high school itself. Once his absence was sorted out, the werewolf allowed himself to focus solely on his young mate.

Grasping tightly onto the pale hand on the bed in front of him, he lowered himself over it a little, not wanting to move the injured teen. Inhaling deeply, that scent of ginger and medication and ozone and cinnamon overwhelmed him in the best way possible. Peter's wolf was no longer scratching to be released, to keep any and all potential threats away from its hurting mate. Said mate's scent alone calmed it down. Actually, it sent it straight into a tension-drained nap. And, well, if it had the exact same effect on Peter as he slumped onto the edge of the bed, torso curled around the hand he held, he'd never admit it.

Two hours later, Stiles half-woke. Blearily, he looked around him. Ah, Peter was there. He was safe then.

With that, Stiles fell back into a deep sleep. Neither of them awoke for another six hours, regardless of who walked into the room to check on them. Both of them were dreaming wonderful dreams.  
Ones of a boy and a wolf running and playing in a sunlit forest.  
And it wasn't too far from the truth, or what would soon be.


	9. First Time For Everything

When Stiles throws the molotov cocktail at Peter it isn't the first time he kills.  
But it is the first time he feels remorse, guilt, sorrow over it.

Of course, he pushes such unnecessary emotions to the back of his mind, locking them away in a dark, heavy metal box wrapped in chains and throws away the keys. Because he refuses to regret killing a psychpathic werewolf. Well, he refuses to regret killing anything. Its no different to normal he tells himself. Its just another body. Just another baddie gone from the world.  
But his heart is adamant to twinge whenever he thinks of the fires burning their victim. His victim.

Peter had been beautiful in his madness. In his bloody tactics and biting words. In his killings.  
Peter had been beautiful.

And Stiles had wanted him. The thought hadn't occurred to him until it was all too late, but once it did he froze for a time. He wanted Peter.  
Not just for sex either - though that was sure to be simply amazing. For his mind and soul and heart and body and his everything.  
Stiles didn't love him. Not yet. It would have come with time. But now, not ever. He'd literally killed any chance he may have had.

Or so he had thought.


	10. Yes, Little One, I Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little one-shot. Enjoy!

After the Nogitsune, the pack had tried to surround Stiles. To wrap him up in their reassurances and acceptance and make him see that they didn't blame him for even a drop of blood the fox demon had drawn.  
But none of that stopped Stiles blaming himself.  
Which in turn meant that he pulled away from the pack, his dad, withdrew into himself.

And after a while, they began to give up. Allison and Aiden's deaths were still fresh, and grief was still afflicting the pack. Scott and Isaac had lost their lover. Lydia had lost her best-friend and her boyfriend; Ethan had lost his twin brother. And through the pack bonds, the grief of those four amplified what the rest of the wolves felt. But Stiles was human, he barely felt the pack bonds. And all he sent through his was regret, guilt and his own grief. He didn't bother trying to feel what was ever sent back.  
Else maybe he'd have noticed a certain zombie wolf.

For over a week now Peter had sat on the roof outside Stiles' bedroom window. The entrance was locked against any canine interlopers, though the lack of mountain ash meant it would have been easy enough to force his way in.  
But Peter was content just to listen. After all, the curtains were drawn. He couldn't see inside. And with the teen being more insomniac than not, it was always interesting to listen in. Most nights there was only the rustle of pages or tapping of a keyboard to be heard. But sometimes there was talking. Stiles would mutter and rant to himself or imaginary demons.

These conversations gave an... interesting, if somewhat disturbing, insight into the younger man's mind. His guilt was constant and unwavering. His self-hatred mirrored that. His melancholy came and went, interspersed with fits near-hysterical bitterness.  
And at some point Peter realised this upset him.

His human shouldn't be feeling depressed or suicidal. His boy shouldn't be shutting himself off from the world. This wasn't his Stiles. And weren't those thoughts just a little disturbing?  
Well, in face of the teen's thoughts, they were nothing.

So, when Peter evntually could stand it no longer, he carefully opened the window, causing as little damage to the frame and lock as possible. That night was one where Stiles was numb. These nights perturbed the ex-alpha. Made him disconcerted. He'd rather Stiles felt something negative than nothing at all. He'd rather Stiles was fidgeting, pacing, than simply sitting, staring into the middle distance. He'd rather Stiles was rambling to figments of his imagination than he remained in unnatural silence, even his breaths barely making an indent in the impenetrable fog that was the audial void.  
Because as worrying as those things were, they were still Stiles. They were still that ADHD spaz of a sarcastic teen. And that was the Stiles that Peter... that Peter loved.

So the wolf entered the bedroom. He couldn't stand this twisted, ruined version of his boy, and it was time to do something about it.

"Stiles? Stiles, little one, can you hear me?" There was no reaction. No muscles tensing or flailing limbs or biting words.  
"Stiles?" This time the teen jumped up from his perch on the edge of his bed, spinning around to face the intruder with wide, shadowed eyes and tight, pale lips. He looked like death warmed up.  
"Thanks." Oh, apparently that had been out loud. But at least there was a reply from it.  
"Are you alright little one?"  
"Alright? Hmph. Try again."  
"How bad are you?"  
"God Peter, you don't even know." For recent weeks, that had to be a record for words in a day.  
"Stiles, I do. I understand. I know. Its... its bad, isn't it? I understand. How could I not?" And why exactly was he spilling his guts to the teen? The teen that had once earned his respect and admiration, but was now a killer, if only indirectly. So why-  
Ah. Of course. It was that exactly. They were so similar. And yet so very different.

"You- You understa-?"  
"Yes little one, I do." And with those words Stiles fell apart. Great, heaving sobs that seemed to be physically ripped from his fragile, pale body. Tears tracking silver down his face. Peter could only rush forwards, gather the younger into his arms. Hold him close and tight. Comfort him with all he could.  
"Its okay. I understand. I know, I know. I'm here. Its okay Stiles. You're okay."

Four lines of salty tears were shed that night as they supported each other.  
They had nobody else.  
And maybe they didn't need them.


	11. Over The Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mates are for life, no matter what happens.

When Laura first brought her best-friend home, Peter took little to no interest beyond the perfunctory 'oh? How sweet'. Until of course, he caught the boy's scent.  
It was intoxicating. It was apple-tart, cinnamon-spicy and vanilla-sweetness. There was an underlying sourness of medicine.  
It was Mate Scent. His Mate Scent.

Five years later, and Stiles had never been far from Peter's thoughts. Perhaps strangely though, he had never been close to Peter's fantasies. Well, a grownup Stiles had often featured, appearing slightly different every time. But never like he was - already gangly at 11 - or as he had been. Only ever ten, twenty, thirty years in the future.

A year later, Peter graduated from best-friend's cool uncle and partner in crime to pillar of support. When John - the tween's father - wasn't able to drive his kid around due to shifts, Peter stepped in.  
On the way to drop Laura off at school, they'd go past the Stilinski household to pick Stiles up too.  
On the way home, the three would either visit Claudia together or the two wolves would take Stiles to the hospital and then leave him with his mother. Peter hated leaving his young mate like that, but he was, at best, a family friend. What more could he do?

Four months later Peter attended the funeral of a Mrs. Claudia Stilinski. Took the place of the father drowning in alcohol, grief and debt and comforted the man's son. Held him tight in the rain as he sobbed. Held together the pieces of the fractured child.  
He was with her when she died you know people whispered.  
Held her hand through it all I heard people whispered.  
The poor sheriff had been out on a call people whispered.  
It painted a sad, sad picture.

A month later, Stiles turned up on the Hale's doorstep. Tearful, skinny, bedraggled. A cut on his cheek steadily bleeding. It was nearly midnight.  
Peter had answered the door and immediately let the boy inside, mouth already forming near-frantic questions. His wolf was whining a litany of mate hurt and help mate and protect mate. So that's what Peter did.

He ushered the boy into the nearest bathroom, gently pushed him down onto the closed toilet seat, and hunted in the cupboard for the first aid kit. Stiles had yet to say a word.  
It only took a minute to clean the wound, give it a single stitch and tape a little gauze on top. The tween barely flinched but for the needle passing through his skin.  
As Peter guided Stiles to the guest room in between Peter' and Laura's rooms that basically belonged to the boy anyway, the man allowed his thoughts to wander.  
The pack had barely seen the human since his mother had died.  
Laura had reported that he reeked of sadness and - strangely - guilt. Perhaps a form of survivor's guilt?

She had reported that he was becoming ever-skinnier, often coming to school without any lunch or money. Laura always shared her's with him instead.  
That he spoke little. And never loudly or insincerely. Never joked or teased.  
That he came smelling of too much soap. Like he was hiding another scent from her supernatural senses.  
The pack had agreed - told themselves more like - that this was natural. A phase. That Stiles was merely grief-stricken and in shock.  
Perhaps not.

Perhaps the Sheriff was handling his wife's death even worse than anticipated or experienced from an outsider's point of view. And perhaps he was taking out some - or all - of those emotions on his innocent, grieving, helpless son. On Stiles. Peter was going to do something about it. Peter was going to look after his precious, precious mate. Starting now.


	12. Alpha (pt.4)

Stiles awoke shivering. Sometime during his unconscious state he appeared to have shifted back to human.

So now he was alone, naked in the Preserve. Fun!

Hopefully Pe- his pack would find him soon. His throat hurt too much to howl. Just breathing was hurting. Actually, everything was hurting.

  
But his wolf was calm. For the first time ever, his wolf was content. In fact, it was curled up around his heart, warming it. Or was his heart warming his wolf? Either way, the heat and happiness and exhaustion and sheer rightness soon sent Stiles back into unconsciousness.

The next time he woke up, it was to a crowded bed. In a massive puppy pile.

Along his left side Peter was stretched, pressed tight against him. His arm was pressing the warm zombie-wolf even closer to himself.  
On his other side, curled up into the space between his chest and his flung out arm was Scott, his snoring an adorable snuffling sound.  
Isaac was smushed up tight, back to back with Scott, Stiles' lax hand buried in his sandy brown curls.  
Lying across the two, legs off the bed entirely, was Allison, her hair spreading over Stiles' stomach.  
On the opposite side of Peter, Derek was in a stiff foetal position, though one leg extended to rest a foot against Stiles' thigh.  
Lydia was spooning his feet, Erica his head, with their respective boyfriends spooning them in turn, all four still touching Stiles.

All nine betas were asleep.  
And so incredibly cute!

With a soft smile of contentment, he drifted back to sleep.


	13. Attacks To Be Laughed At

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some fluff.

Peter woke up to giggling. High-pitched, childish giggling. Something was tickling his nose.

"Wha-" he grumbled, reaching up to bat the... whatever it was off of his face.

"No! Peter, leave it!" From the whiney tone alone he could hear the pout on his mate's face. Sighing, he obliged.

"Good doggy!" The man sighed again, though it was fond. Well, more fond than not at least.

"What are you doing Stiles?"

"I'm balancing whipped cream on your nose."

"Whipped cream?"

"Yep!" replied Stiles, popping the 'p' loudly.

The elder finally worked up the energy to open his eyes. And glared at Stiles with a not-uncommon 'I'm a creepy creeper wolf and I will get you back for this - as soon as I find out why you did in the first place'. A few seconds of staring sure had a lot of meaning. The teenager understood every word. He was used to it after all.

"Beause it's funny. Smile!" With which, before the man could even blink, he raised his phone, snapping a few pictures.

Spluttering indignantly, Peter shot up. Whipped cream promptly fell with a splat! onto the open book still perched in his lap. The centuries old, very important, very expensive tome.

"Stiles..." Blue eyes flashing, voice a growl.

"Oops?"

"Not acceptable!"

And then the tickle attack commenced.

"N-no! Pet-te-er, s-s-stop it!" But the werewolf was already crouched over his mate, running his calloused fingers mercilessly down the heaving sides and trembling tummy of the victim. Stiles was reduced to writhing, letting out breathy, breathless laughs. Peter gave a rare answering grin. He even bypassed the typical smirk.

So engrossed in their game as they were, neither noticed the pack sprawling into the loft. And gaping. And snickering softly under their breaths. Until Scott finally couldn't hold it in and dissolved into full-on belly laughing. The sound echoed and boomed around the wide open space.  
In an instant, Stiles and Peter were a few metres apart, blushing furiously, coughing abashedly yet still with small smiles (okay, Peter had reverted back to a smirk, but whatever) and mirth dancing in their eyes. The human was attempting to straighten his crumpled, rumpled clothes. The werewolf was attempting to wipe the remaining cream away from his nose.

And the teens just laughed all the more.


	14. Silver Doesn't Do All The Damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little BAMF!Stiles really. Short but probably not sweet.

Deucalion had decided: This wasn't amusing anymore. It was wrath-incurring, aggravating, incensing.

"Why are you still smiling?! WHY?!" he roared, completely infuriated. But the Hale pack still had those wide, shit-eating grins (and more lady-like smirks).

"WHY?! The only member of your little 'pack' left is that pathetic excuse for a human. Your little pack _bitch._" And he was right. The only member of the pack left _was_ Stiles - he wasn't in the warehouse and therefore hadn't been beaten to a bloody pulp. But Deucalion was wrong about everything else.

_Tsk tsk tsk._ The derisive tutting came from the shadows of the room near the entrance. A flash of red and a glint of silver.

_"Really Dukey. You should do your research." _ More red and silver, closer to the Hale pack.

"Who are you?" the demonic alpha demanded, trying to find the elusive... creature by sound, scent, anything. Yet he couldn't.

Another brief splash of colour and a harsh, condescending chuckle.

_"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Dukey dearest."_

Kali and Ennis both fell to the ground, dead. No blood, no wolfsbane, no mountain ash. Just _stone dead_. Aiden and Ethan, on the opposite side of the giant room, followed within a second.

Now Deucalion was the only one left. A sudden purring behind him made the 'wolf spin around, but there was nothing there. Was there?

_"You hurt that pack Dukey. You hurt what's mine." _ Again, nothing there. Then the agony began. His senses were abandoning him rapidly.

** _"Nobody hurts what's mine."_ **

Only pain was left.


	15. Yes  (pt.1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even better than a werewolf bite.

Stiles was staring at the poptarts he'd dished himself on a small side plate. God knows why he'd bother- Oh yeh. To hide how far from okay (so far - like couldn't remember or even imagine the last time he was) he was. He didn't need his dad drinking even more. But luckily - or maybe unluckily - his dad had left before Stiles had even taken his first bite.  
He still hadn't taken that first bite.

Just as he stood with a heavy sigh of resignation, there was a crisp knock on the front door. Abandoning the food on the table, he trudged half-heartedly over to the entrance, pulling it open just enough to see through.  
Peter was stood there. In all his creepy, V-neck, psycho zombie-wolf glory.

"Uh. Um. What? Uh-"

"The plane leaves at twelve. Just over an hour. If you're coming, get your stuff, write a note and let's go. ...Well?" There was a long pause, Stiles staring at Peter in bewilderment.

"Where?" he finally blurted out. His hands were trembling even worse than usual.

"LA for now. But we're wandering. Travelling until we find a good place to stay. Somewhere safe, private. We can be whoever we want."

"'We'?"

"We." And that seemed to be the tipping point for the teen. Beacon Hills held too many bad memories, too much blood and betrayal and loneliness. Stiles and Peter were both pack outcasts. Wanted only when needed. Shunned otherwise. They'd killed.  
They understood each other.

"Yes."

Half an hour later Stiles had packed everything important but his electronics. Any important files and other data was safely stored on a Star Wars memory stick. Now he just had to write a letter to his dad. In the end, Peter advised him to keep it short, sweet and simple. Or as much so as his ADHD-riddled brain could manage. And so the teen wrote:

_Hey Dad._   
_ Once you find this I'll be gone. I'm not coming back. Sorry._   
_ It's not your fault. I love you, I do, and you try so hard, but I can't be here anymore and you belong here. Look after yourself and Melissa, okay?_

There were no classic watermarks in little splatters to smudge the ink. Stiles had no more tears to give. Neither did he make any promises of being happy or safe. They'd both know he had more chance of that anywhere that wasn't Beacon Hills.  
And, so with quarter of an hour to spare, Peter and Stiles left Beacon Hills. Half an hour after that, they were on a plane, headed for LA as promised.

Who knows where they'd end up?

But they'd be together. Together to stop the nightmares, to understand the fears, to comfort through the panic attacks, to reign in hysterics and anger.

They'd be together. And that was all they'd need.


	16. Alpha (pt.5)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long - particularly for you Bites! *winks*

When he at last awoke again, the first thing Stiles noticed was that he was alone.

  
With a discontented rumble, he sat up and stumbled out of bed. Being a werewolf had done surprisingly and disappointingly little for his lack of coordination.  
As he trudged into the bathroom, he realised he was wearing a pair of his own old, soft pyjama bottoms, but the shirt wasn't his. Was it-? Pulling it to his nose to make sure, he inhaled the calming scents of petrichor and citrus. Of Peter. Of Ma- Nope. Too early in the day to go thinking about all that.

"Stiles?" his dad called up the stairs. He could have just spoken softly, he didn't need to shout.

"Yeah?" he replied as he left his room.

"Your betas and Peter are here."

"I know Dad, wolfy senses, remember? And Peter's my beta too." Stiles both heard and saw the answering huff as he reached the bottom of the stairs.  
His heart warmed further at seeing his pack sprawled out around his front room, his father stood in the doorway to the kitchen. His wolf howled in delight and he twitched, resisting the urge to mirror the action.

"Alright kiddo?"

"Yep! And that better not be bacon I smell!" But the man didn't take the bait. The teens and Hales remained silent, letting John handle his son.

"So how long were you throwing up blood for?"

"I-" he sighed in resignation, "How'd you know?"

"We could always smell blood on you." "And you threw up before you ran off." Of course the betas only piped up to help accuse him. He loved them all, but sometimes he wanted to strangle them.

"So, care to explain son?"

"No. Not really-"

"Your wolf was feral, wasn't he?" In the horrified silence following Peter's words, Stiles glared at him. But his eyes didn't flash red.

"Stiles-"

"Yes, he was feral. A newly alpha wolf who'd just lost its mate - of course it was wild! He wanted blood. To rip and bite and claw and tear. So I let him. I let him take what he needed. But from me. My insides, okay?! I let my feral wolf rip me apart from the inside out!"

"Mate?"


	17. Over The Years (pt.2)

It had been a month. In that time, Stiles had moved full-time to the Hale's house. Away from his father, from abuse.

  
Yet Peter was bewildered.

  
Stiles had always been an unnaturally curious and intelligent child. On his second visit to the home of his best-friend, he met Talia's gaze directly and stated - not asked - that she was the alpha of her pack. And turning to her cousin, that he was the Second. And finally that her other cousin was the enforcer.  
Brazen, bold, fearless in the face of monsters. And completely correct too of course. No wonder he was Peter's mate.

So now it was bewildering that this bright child didn't seem to grasp the concept of abuse. At least not in regard to himself.

Oh, he knew that there was something wrong with his Dad. That his Dad had hurt him. That his Dad was scaring him. That he had to get somewhere safe. But labelling that as the abuse it was just didn't seem to be working.

  
So Peter didn't push. Didn't mention it in more than passing and wouldn't allow the pack to go beyond that either. Because Peter may have only been twenty-one, but he could take on and defeat almost any other member of the pack with brute force alone. Let alone discretely, covertly, using his wiles and wicked ways.  
Because dammit if they weren't both Slytherins to the core. And even though Stiles wasn't fully acknowledging his home situation, he did seem to be dealing with it.  
He went to school every day, Laura at his side. She spoke up in class for him on his bad days, punched the kids that dared to make fun of him. Stiles just clung to her. If she was given detention for her vigilante ways, then he would sit in there with her, refusing to leave. They'd eat lunch together, Stiles only managing the whole thing if Peter had made it and Laura could then guilt-trip him into eating it all.

  
Peter began making all the kids' lunches daily after they realised that.

  
Speaking of Peter, once home, Stiles rarely left his sight. Even as a human, he had a vague sense of gravity from Peter. He was drawn close and began to take comfort in that subconscious bond. Accordingly, he was forever tucking himself under the man's arm or curling into his side on the sofa. Luckily, Peter worked from home and whilst the man was labouring on his laptop, Stiles would pull out his homework or a book or a pencil and pad and be productive himself. They didn't speak much during those times, but the companionship was all they needed.

  
One of the worst things were Stiles' nightmares. A few goes after falling asleep, the tween would begin to thrash and whimper, haunted by a drunk father and a mother who was no longer his. Most nights a week, Peter would rush into his room and hold him close, rock him comfortingly, as he woke up and sobbed.  
But the worst nights were when he did not simply sob but fell into a panic attack. Peter would pull him into his lap, back to chest, lay one if his large, warm hands over that too-fragile chest and coach him through breathing. Reminding him of 'breathe in darling' and 'now hold it' and 'out again now' and always, always telling him that it was alright, he'd done well, everything was going to be okay. It worked. And often, Stiles would refuse to let Peter go and the man would smile that small, fond smile and pick him up, carrying him carefully to Peter's own bed. Stiles would have no more nightmares.

  
Meanwhile, Talia's husband, David, one of the other deputies at the station, had begun trying to help John. He had talked the shop keepers into not allowing him to buy alcohol and gotten the man into grief counselling. He brought around meals a few times a week and paid for a cleaner to visit the house once a week. Most importantly perhaps, he talked to John. About work, about his family but most of all, about Stiles. He'd show John progress reports and pieces of work that earned the boy top grades. Art projects and photos of science 'experiments'. About how he clung to Peter and Laura but was beginning to come out of his shell again with the rest of the Hales. How school wasn't the best but he wasn't alone and he was still getting good grades.

  
And John was slowly getting better. All of this made him wallow less. He couldn't drink except for what he drove to the next town over for, which was too far for him to do regularly. Not to mention David would just pour it away. He was eating fairly regularly. And hearing about Stiles seemed to drag him away from grief and into something in between regret, resignation and determination.  
Overall, things were far from perfect, but they were looking up.


	18. Alpha (pt.6)

"Uh. Oops?" The room was frozen - a tableau of shock.

"Son? Peter is-?"

But the teen heard nothing else as words, so strong, so warm, enveloped him along the arms of his mate.

"Knew. Came back for you. For you. Knew." His Mate, his Peter, so broken.

"Sorry. So sorry. Never wanted- Needed-" His own words, normally eager and tumbling, faltered and fell. He had killed his Mate, in the way that would hurt him most.

So maybe they were both a little shattered inside.

Finally the flabbergasted stares of his Dad and betas broke through the bubble of Peter's embrace. Stepping slightly apart, Stiles unashamedly trailed his fingertips down his mate's arm, finally interlacing their fingers tightly. Peter squeezed back just as hard.

"So... mates?" His dad's face was somewhere between bemusement and horror. Stiles nodded decisively in reply. He didn't need his dad's approval, but that didn't mean he didn't want it.

"Okay. I can deal. But he's coming for dinner at least twice a week. And the bedroom door stays open." Both Stiles and Peter snorted at that.

"Sure."

(Inside his chest, Stiles could feel his wolf, not tamed, but calm, content. Oh it still had sharp teeth and ready claws, but it was content.)


	19. Ravens And Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magical Stiles is best Stiles.

Stiles had been gone for a year and a semester when he returned to Beacon Hills. In that time, none of the pack had seen him, only with texts and phone calls exchanged. Having fast-tracked through college, working extra-credit during the holidays, plus working in a magical bookshop, the young man had been very busy.

And now, on the day he was finally due home, of course a combined horde of pixies and gnomes were attacking.  
It wasn't a difficult fight for the pack but it was proving to be a long one. Tiny, sharp-toothed and talon-waving, flying fae and squat, ugly gnomes that bit ankles and smashed kneecaps.  
The worst part? Pixies exploded into glitter when killed. And gnomes into bloody clots of earth. Also explosive of course. In short, it was a long, tiring, dirty job - and the pack had to do it.

They were fighting, spread out across a clearing, when an unfamiliar wolf - a literal one - bounded in. And immediately began shredding fae left and right.  
Before the pack could decide whether it was an ally or something else to fight, a shockwave of magic burst through the clearing. And every pixie and gnome simultaneously imploded.

"Raven! I told you not to get covered in glitter! I explicitly said the words 'if you even think of getting covered in glitter I'll keep you in for twelve days'! Twelve is a long time Rave, it's 288 hours! 17,280 minutes! It's-"

"STILES?!"  
The rambling was cut off by half the pack,

"Yeh, hi guys. RAVE! Come here you little brussel sprout! No, don't hide behind Creeper Wolf! Ugh- Raven- You-"

"Stiles?"

"Yeh, hi again. One sec. Raven, you are a fully fledged spirit wolf, don't you hide like a puppy that's not been house-trained. You don't even have to pee! Raven!"

But no, the new, inky-black wolf had slunk behind Peter and was poking his head out from between the man's legs, as though his flank and tail weren't still perfectly obvious.

"Fine. You can just go in now then. Silly carrot." And with that, Stiles traced a triskelion in the air and with a rush of wind and ozone, the whining 'Raven' dissolved into shadows.

After a moment, Stiles stretched, then smiled blindingly at the pack.

"Hey guys! Gonna hug me or what?"

"Stiles?"

"Well duh," came the instant reply.

"You look... different."

And he did. Stiles had grown several more inches, probably the tallest out of them all now, and his gangly fawn-limbs had become lean and lithe. His hair has grown out into a top-knot of syrup and chocolate strands, though his eyes were still a perfect whiskey brown-gold.  
But the biggest change of all were the tattoos that connected all his moles and freckles.  
Trees and constellations and runes and wolves and ravens and snakes and all kinds of tribal patterns. All black and grey on the creamy skin.  
Entrancing.

"Well dear boy, you've grown up."

"You said it. Com'ere Creeper Wolf." The invitation and open arms brought Peter rocketing into the young man, scenting him happily.

"Missed you. Missed you all so much," murmured Stiles. And the quiet desperation dragged the rest of the pack in until Stiles was laying on the ground, surrounded and squashed by his family.

That night, once they'd all washed off the glitter, blood and earth, the pack had gathered in the pack house. And were interrogating Stiles about the wolf.

"-see, there's this ritual you can go through to summon and maintain your spirit animal. Hurts like a bitch, believe me. But anyway, Raven arrived. Anchored him to one of my tattoos - my triskelion, funnily enough - and now he manifests whenever I need him. Helps with panic attacks no end!" Stiles talked through the growls that eminated at that.

"He's been with me for nearly a year now. Love him, but he's way too rebellious. Yeh, I said it, you weird little courgette. I mean it-"

"Stiles. Hush now, sweetheart. I'm sure Raven knows."

"True, true." Peter passing him another slice of pizza kept him quiet.

It was two days later when Stiles and Peter were alone. Or as much as they could be in a grocery store. They were nearly done when Stiles spoke up suddenly,

"Hey, Creeper Wolf."

"Hmm?" The elder turned to Stiles, stood only a foot away.

"I really did miss you, you know. Probably more than I should, but hey, the heart wants what it wants, right? And I kinda always thought you were hot then we started doing research together and, daaaamn, you're intelligent. And you're sarcastic too and-"

"Whilst I appreciate you extolling my virtues, sweetheart, I'd rather you just kissed me instead."

For all that Stiles had grown up, he still squeaked and blushed at that, flailing his arms wildly.

"Wahh-!"

"I love you too."

And with that, Peter looped a muscled arm around Stiles' waist, grabbed one wrist and trapped the other between their bodies as he leant closer and pressed their lips together for a sweet, sweet moment.

"Come on now darling, we mustn't forget the ice cream. We can get your favourite."

Although even as he walked away, Peter didn't release Stiles' hand.


	20. Alpha (pt.7)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written at Bites' prompting - hope you all enjoy, even if it only took me quarter of an hour, if that!

Three nights later, Stiles was curled up in bed, wolf rumbling low and content in his chest. Strong arms and thick legs wound around him, a stubbled face breathing hotly against his forehead. Stiles revelled in their closeness. He and Peter, they were... They weren't perfect. They were damaged and aching and broken but together... Together they were so much more. Together they were healing and holding and loving.

Case in point: having slept together, limbs entangled and breathing from the same two inches of air, for the previous three nights. Once, all of their pups had sprawled around them, every person touching and their combined warmth heating the room like a furnace. But still, the proximity was worth it. Knowing that they were all safe and cherished and part of a pack that wanted them.

For their pack members, people who had been bullied and abused and abandoned and lost and _hurt_, that meant more than the world.

Stiles' dad was dealing with it all, in his own way and on his own time. After all, having the supernatural world introduced to him had been far more of a shock than anything else could be. He had known that one day Stiles would find his mate. And that his mate could be older or younger or male or female or anything in between. That knowledge didn't stop him from being incredibly hesitant about Peter for the first few days. But when he watched them together, saw how very gentle their hands were - hands that so easily clawed and tore and killed - he couldn't find it in himself to deny them. When he saw that flame beginning to spark in their eyes, the heat and warmth so similar to what he had shared with Claudia, what could he do but smile? His boy had found someone to love, someone who loved him, and that warmed the Sheriff's heart. The sarcasm and snark the two threw at each other was playful, teasing, like wolf pups nipping at each other. Their practice fights were flirty, all taunting and tricks and tearing little shreds off of each other whilst doing no true damage. Their nights were spent as this one was, curled up close and relying on each other, relishing in the company that they had both lacked for so long.

Of course, not everything was perfect. It had taken a few proper conversations between him and Peter to sort out many things. To apologise for having burnt Peter alive. To apologise for Peter not having looked after his then-Beta and instead continuing on his revenge spree. They both had problems to work through but with each other to lean on it was so much easier, so much more possible.

Peter and Stiles were only just starting out as a couple, but what they had built together so far was wonderful. And they would make sure it stayed so. They loved each after all.


	21. No Longer Quite So Quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of 'Quiet and Ignored', set a year or two later - it's just a tiny snippet of their life now. Enjoy! 
> 
> Oh, and a shout-out to Little_Bites for being so encouraging with all their lovely comments - thank you Bites!

Stiles had received several full scholarship offers, but Stanford was the one he chose to take up. Their criminology and mythological anthropology courses were well-renowned and exactly what he wanted. Of course, it helped that it would get him out of Beacon Hills for four years, barring some holidays. And Peter was coming with him, making it all the better.

The elder wolf had bought them an apartment, only a ten minute walk from campus, with a stunning park visible from the bedroom windows, all tall oaks and beeches and wide cobbled pathways that offered just enough privacy to be peaceful. The apartment itself was a relatively simple affair: one large bedroom, a modern, open kitchen that lead into either the living space or the hallway, and an ensuite bathroom. It wasn't much good for more than just them, but they didn't need it to be. They bought enough IKEA shelving units to cover two walls - one in the living area and one in the bedroom - and filled them to the brim with their books, the two collections combining until they almost couldn't remember whose was whose anymore. A dining table set by the kitchen counter-wall was big enough to seat six, but a good half of it was covered in a collection of textbooks, case files, data sheets and various bits of stationary and technology. A jar of mountain ash was serving as a paperweight; a dagger was half-buried amongst a collection of pens, pencils and memory sticks. The walls remained the original soft dove grey, but one large section of it was clad in whiteboard, magnets and string keeping entire sheaves of papers in place, scribbling almost overtaking all the remaining white. One shelf in their bedroom held a small collection of five photo frames.

One depicted a young Stiles, maybe six years old, in his back garden with his Mum and Dad, all three grinning fit to burst, dirt and a few flower petals splattered all over their clothes.

One with remarkable parallels was of a child Peter, albeit at around eleven, Talia, at seventeen, beaming and ruffling his hair, their parents, two aunts and three uncles, plus their various cousins, arranged around them, all laughing or pouting or smiling shyly. One toddler had noticeable canines and yellow-brown eyes, should one take the time to notice.

Another photo was Stiles and his Dad, taken only a year ago, both of them greyer and stiller and sadder, but still clearly close, judging by how John looked at Stiles as though he was the most precious thing in the world, Stiles' smile not necessarily joyful but alight with a protective delight, fierce and bright and beautiful.

The fourth depicted Talia, her husband, her three kids, Peter and a few of their cousins, taken almost twenty years ago now. Cora was still in nappies.

The fifth and final picture was two men, one tall and lithe and dotted in moles, smile stunning and loving, eyes haunted and shadowed yet so very pretty, focused intently on the werewolf whose neck his arms were wrapped loosely around. Said werewolf had sandy brown hair, muscles and the softest smirk, upturned at the corners and fondness etched in every line of his face, his eyes glowing supernaturally not with his wolf but with his love, so all-encompassing and bright.

The apartment was theirs. They had claimed it with every inch of their beings. Had carved themselves a place here, so far from Beacon Hills, so far from the pack that struggled to accept them. Somewhere they were learning and growing and loving. Oh, they were still plagued by nightmares and memories and hatred and doubts and fears, but here they could be themselves and love themselves. They could debate and flirt and chat and sit in companionable silence; they could dance in each other's arms or lay with their legs entangled, breathing the same air.

Here they could love each other. So that was what they did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fear that there will only be one or two more chapters after this - if any of you have any prompts, please do comment with them - I will write anything that gives me some inspiration!
> 
> Hugs, love and gratitude - Ota. Xxx


	22. Yes (pt.2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a short bit of fluff!

For eight months now, Stiles and Peter had been travelling from place to place. Some towns lasted a month (Vancouver, New York) others only a week (Houston). Sometimes because of unwelcoming packs or hunters; sometimes because they simply bored of their surroundings and got the urge to move on.  
Their situation was... good, actually. Very good.

  
Money was no object, but the two had paired up to become hit-hunters. After accidentally killing someone's target, they had been thrown into the society and, well, they'd yet to look back. Between killing off supernatural criminals for extra money and just travelling, the two were always busy, always focused on something.  
Because when they settled into a routine, when they allowed themselves to relax, the past came creeping back up to them with all the subtlety of a shadow but the strength of a hundred sledge hammers. Nightmares of riddles and blood and fire and forest. Nightmares that had Stiles falling into panic attacks and Peter lashing out at the darkness. The only way to stop them was the gentle awakening of soft touches and softer words.

  
Peter would card one hand through short, soft brown hair, the other tugging gently at Stiles' own fingers, one to ten, one to ten. A litany of 'It's okay darling' and 'You're safe sweetheart' and 'Hush now little one' would be murmured into the shell of Stiles' ear, gradually soothing him into calmer awakening.

  
Stiles would wrap himself around the wolf. His long legs would secure themselves across the stockier man's, his arms either wrapping around a heaving chest or pinning down clawed hands. But most importantly, Stiles would nuzzle delicately into Peter's throat, scenting him, letting his wolf know they were safe, they were away.

It wasn't perfect, far from it in fact, but it was enough. All that they wanted, needed, they could find in each other. And so they did, everyday, no matter the view outside the window or the road beneath their tyres. They had fallen in love with each other after all. And what more could anybody ever need?


End file.
